


Take Care

by biggrstaffbunch



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sickfic!, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23523832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggrstaffbunch/pseuds/biggrstaffbunch
Summary: Buck comes down with a migraine, and Eddie nurses him through it. And maybe, just maybe, feelings start to surface, too.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Evan “Buck” Buckley & Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 582





	Take Care

Buck is in the middle of talking to Eddie when it begins. 

There’s a distant clanging of bells in his head, and then a blink, a point in the distance that gets wider in aperture, and—

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, just as the aura sets in with an awful sense of disorientation. It makes Buck dizzy, has him struggling to focus. It’s like his vision blanks out, provides fuzzy static instead of images, colors losing their sense of vibrancy, big chunks of a picture being replaced by a throbbing blank spot.

And then the headache begins. A sickening ache, sharp and unrelenting, driving into the right side of his skull. Sunlight is too much, darkness isn’t much better. The sound of Chimney’s laugh, the clank of dishes from the kitchen, even the unassuming mutters of low conversations — it tangles in Buck’s head, makes his gorge rise.

He presses a fist to his right eye, curses out loud, soft and vicious. His tongue is already going numb and the nausea is going to get worse. He’s got to go home, he’s got to—

“Buck?”

Eddie’s voice is quiet, but it still makes Buck flinch. Then there’s a hand, warm and firm, on the back of Buck’s neck, thumb massaging the knot at the base of his skull.

Relief is minimal, but enough for Buck to squint his eyes open. Eddie is staring at him, face impassive.

“You with me, bud?” he asks. The sun behind him, usually a halo of gold that burnishes his hair a glowing amber, is now violent to Buck’s senses. Immediately, Buck slams his eyes shut again.

“I’m gonna take that as a no,” comes the follow up. And then Eddie is guiding Buck to a seat, placing him down gently, hand ghosting over the crown of Buck’s head, raking fingers through Buck’s short hair in soothing strokes.

“I think it’s a migraine,” Eddie tells someone, presumably Bobby, from the low, concerned register of the questioning voice. “Yeah, he told me he started getting them after the tsunami. Doc thinks it’s because of, uh, lack of stress management.”

There’s a scoff, a buzz of response. A dry laugh from Eddie. 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Eddie says. “Poor guy can’t catch a break.”

Buck feels another jab behind his eye, the nausea sharpening. He touches his stomach and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Despite himself, he grabs blindly at Eddie’s hand still on the top of his head, presses down on it insistently. He tries to say something, an apology, or a request, but all that comes out is a small whimper of abject pain.

Silence, and then Eddie’s hand is moving, circling a thumb into Buck’s temple, a delicious pressure that makes the pain recede just a bit.

“Christopher gets ‘em sometimes, too,” Eddie continues, voice even quieter. “His are more food-related but they get bad. I think this one is gonna be bad, too, Cap. Do you think…?”

Whatever he’s asking is answered in the affirmative, because Eddie heaves a sigh of relief and his fingers curl through Buck’s hair again, giving a gentle tug that makes some of the tightness around Buck’s eyes go away.

“Okay, pal,” Eddie says. “I’m taking you home.”

It’s all Buck can do to nod, to stagger upright and blink his eyes open. He feels ashamed at his sudden weakness, wants to explain. Maybe he even opens his mouth to do so, but the pain comes again in a jarring, swamping wave, tunneling his vision, and he bites back a tiny cry, instead. 

Perhaps it’s the force with which Buck jams the heel of his palm into his eye socket, but Bobby gives a fatherly, soothing noise that makes something sting in Buck’s nose.

“Go on, Buck,” Bobby says sympathetically, “Sleep it off, kid, we’ll see you next shift.”

At Buck’s whispered, sickeningly grateful, super embarrassed, “‘Kay, thanks,” Bobby claps a warm hand on Buck’s shoulder, gives him a gentle shake. 

Buck, humiliatingly, stumbles back under the force of the gesture, winces at the sharp jab of pain in his skull. Beside him, slowly, carefully, Eddie steadies him, sliding his arm around Buck’s waist.

“Come on, honey,” Eddie says, and even through the haze of pain, Buck jolts.

It’s probably a reflex from dealing with Christopher when sick, probably instinct and nothing more, Buck _knows_ that, but there’s something so sweet and genuine about the term of endearment that Buck leans into Eddie like a plant thirsting for water. He doesn’t say anything, afraid that Eddie will take it back or stop being so _nice_. Instead, Buck just lets Eddie gather him close, squinting against the icepick plunging inexorably through his eyeball, trying not to retch.

“Sorry,” he whispers, because he can’t help but feel stupid. 

Eddie shakes his head, curls his arm more securely around Buck. “You’re allowed to be sick, Buck,” he says kindly.

The thing is, Buck’s been through a ladder truck crushing his leg, an embolism as a result of his overwork, almost drowning in a tsunami, countless injuries on the job— and he’s managed to get over all it, at least on the outside. But there’s something about repeated bodily trauma that makes this betrayal of his own body attacking itself for no reason even _worse._ It hurts in a way that never really stops — a panic, a phantom ache that is always there in the back of his mind, knowing it could spring out of nowhere and he’d be helpless to stop it. So when the thing he fears actually happens, when the headache arrives without rhyme or reason and incapacitates him completely, Buck isn’t an LAFD hotshot anymore. He’s just another person in pain, struggling to cope.

Wanting so badly to feel comfort, somehow. Somewhere. From someone. 

Eddie shifts his weight, takes on more of Buck’s increasingly lax frame. He’s strong, assured, the side of his head a perfect resting place for Buck’s cheek as they walk.

And even as Buck knows Eddie is rolling his eyes at the way Buck’s cheek is smushed against Eddie’s hair, he also knows that Eddie is being unbearably gentle in leading them to his truck. Indulgent as always. 

Buck’s eyes prickle a little, both at the searing knife of pain in his head and at the overwhelming knowledge that someone who isn’t blood, someone who doesn’t _have_ to care about him, _does_ care about him enough to take him home. To take care of him.

To watch his back.

If he wasn’t already sort of in love with Eddie, he thinks he probably is now. 

There’s a vise-like squeeze to Buck’s brain again, like the universe heard him pining again and decided to punish him doubly.

“Ugh,” Buck groans, and turns his face, buries it in Eddie’s neck, breathing in long and deep.

“Let’s go, pal,” Eddie says, taking on even more of Buck’s weight. “I gotcha.” 

Like it’s that easy, like all Buck has to do is trust him.

And maybe it is.

So Buck does. 

|  
  


Times like these, Eddie is absurdly grateful for how dark and spartan his bedroom is.

There’s no way Eddie would leave Buck someplace where the loft windows flood the space with glaring light, where stairs might guarantee he groggily stumbles to his death. Instead, Eddie brings Buck back to his own place, where it’s cozy and there’s heavy curtains and a sense of _home_ , especially considering Buck spends 75 percent of his time outside the firehouse here anyway.

Then, of course, seeing Buck sit on the mid-century modern couch in the living room doesn’t feel right, so Eddie gives him some water and two Excedrin then quickly hustles him into the master bedroom instead, helping Buck into the bed and under the covers, a lump of a man curled in a heavy quilt.

It’s weird, how Buck isn’t even cracking any jokes about how utilitarian Eddie’s room is, or how uncomfortable the bed must be, an old spring mattress that has seen better days. Instead, he takes a few deep breaths, like he’s trying to control the throbbing at his temples.

“Ow,” Buck finally moans, and Eddie’s heart twists at the abject misery in Buck’s voice. 

“I didn’t know they were this bad,” Eddie says, troubled, sitting down next to Buck. He places his hand on Buck’s forehead absently, strokes Buck’s hair back. His heart twists again as Buck leans into his palm with obvious need, lashes fluttering over flushed cheeks. 

Even sick, he’s startlingly handsome, big and bold and undeniably alive, not one bit diminished despite his pain. Eddie feels weird making that observation, but also a little relieved, because it’s a shred of normalcy despite the worrisome nature of Buck’s escalating headache.

Leave it to Buck to suffer and still be so pretty. And leave it to Eddie to notice at the most stupidly inappropriate times.

“Buck?” Eddie asks, scratching at Buck’s scalp. “What can I do?”

“It hurts so much,” is all Buck can say, a confirmation that he is Not Okay. “But ‘m usually alone, so…” his words slur a little as he turns his face into Eddie’s pillow. “Just you being here is enough.”

He rubs a fist in his eye, pressing knuckles into his brow bone until the skin turns red. Eddie makes a _tsking_ sound and replaces Buck’s hand with his own, gentling his touch so he’s pressing into the reddened skin, fingers feather light but certain.

Buck makes a noise of relief, then takes another deep breath, obviously fighting against the nausea. Eddie remembers from experience with Chris and from Buck’s descriptions that there’ll be throwing up later, and because Buck hasn’t had breakfast, it’s going to be bile and stomach acid. Maybe the remnants of the Excedrin. 

Eddie pictures Buck in his apartment, long frame folded awkwardly around the toilet, throwing up into the bowl while his skull is splitting open inside, worse than a hangover, a body that is rioting against every instinct to be well, to be calm.

He pictures Buck crawling into bed, coughing around a ravaged esophagus, swiping at his face and sweating through the pain, tossing and turning and groaning, dehydrated, confused, helpless.

He pictures Buck doing all this alone, without anyone to wipe his face or give him water or even whisper words of encouragement, and it feels so _wrong._ So _unfair_ for a man who spends most of his life helping others with cheerful, good-natured enthusiasm.

“Where else would I be?” Eddie responds, and he means it even if it sounds like a joke.

Buck laughs a little, then groans at his head being jarred, then whines into the pillow again, digging his face deeper into the fabric like it might cure the ache. “I can think of a few places _I’d_ rather be,” he says brokenly, and circles his arms around the pillow, hugging it in a death grip.

Eddie sighs restlessly, feeling strangely bereft at the prospect that he can’t do anything to make the pain go away. He remembers that it felt this way, too, when Buck was recovering from his leg being crushed, when he was depressed and angry about not being able to work. Only then, Eddie channeled his helplessness into anger and resentment, and hurt Buck further with it.

They’re past that, now. These days, Eddie has learned how to keep the people he loves close, instead of push them away. Especially Buck, who wears his heart on his sleeve and only asks for the same sincerity back. 

It’s the best way Eddie knows to make up for his mistakes: caring harder, more freely, more honestly than before.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’m gonna go get you some water and a cool towel, okay? I’ll be right back.”

He stands to leave, and Buck stops him, grabbing at his hand blindly. His skin is warm, and Eddie feels something drop in his belly at the way Buck slots their fingers together.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” Buck says, eyes closed. His thumb rubs across Eddie’s knuckles, leaving frissions of heat in its wake.

It’s just a comfort thing, Eddie reminds himself as his heart leaps. Buck probably doesn’t even know what he’s doing. He _definitely_ doesn’t know what it’s doing to _Eddie._

“I know I’m exhausting,” Buck says. “I know I’m...a lot, and you’ve got a kid to look after, and a home to run, plus the job...I know this isn’t what you wanna be doing.”

There’s something awful about the way Buck rambles the words almost deliriously, like they’re being pulled from him involuntarily. His hand is shaking imperceptibly, and his face is screwed up in pain, his voice almost a groan.

“I’m just really grateful, man—” he continues, before Eddie squeezes Buck’s hand to make him stop.

“Buck,” Eddie says, and crouches down so he’s eye level with the bed. He reaches out his other hand, cards it through Buck’s hair, tries so hard to convey all the jumbled thoughts in his head through sheer force of affection. “Buck, listen to me.”

Buck cracks one eye open, bleary and blue, but aware.

“You’re my best friend,” Eddie says, as evenly as he can manage. “You’re family. I take care of family.”

Right underneath those words, so loud that even Eddie can hear it, is the elaboration, _you’re mine. I take care of what’s mine_.

Buck smiles faintly even though his brow is creased. He looks a little uncertain, still, like he’s not sure if he believes Eddie. 

“I mean it,” Eddie says firmly, and stands, letting Buck’s hand drop slowly to the bed. “Besides, you’ve seen me in the middle of the worst stomach flu of my life. And when I went through that phase where all I wore was bootcut jeans. You’re stuck with me now, Buck.”

Buck laughs breathlessly, then yawns around a pained expression. Eddie lurches forward, but Buck shakes his head. 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I believe you. You wanna take care of Migraine McGee, won’t see me fighting you. But. Thank you. Really, Eddie.”

“Stop thanking me,” Eddie responds, crossly. “And stop talking! Get some sleep.”

“Ugh, fine,” Buck mumbles. “But, uh….about that cool cloth?”

Eddie snorts. “Yes sir,” he says drily, giving a mock salute.

Buck gives a lightning quick grin before groaning again and rolling over, smushing his face into Eddie’s pillow.

Before Eddie turns to go, he glances over his shoulder at the sight of Buck laying in his bed, wrapped in his duvet, looking for all the world like he’s always belonged there. Like there’s nowhere else he could or should be.

And Eddie feels slightly like something has been decided for him, without being quite sure what.

|

Turns out, Eddie hovers.

He does it in a very Eddie way, which means he grumbles under his breath and rolls his eyes and gently bullies Buck into allowing Eddie to take care of him, so if someone accused him of hovering, he’d deny it. 

But he does. And it’s kind of cute.

In fact, any other time, Buck might tease Eddie affectionately about it. But now?

Truthfully, Buck is in so much pain, and so _tired,_ that he has no strength to do anything except claw ineffectively at Eddie’s bedding, desperate for the headache to stop.

“Hey,” Eddie soothes, “You okay?”

He’s already given Buck a cool cloth for his head, wringing it out over and over just to make sure there’s something cold over Buck’s eyes. He’s crouched over Buck in the bathroom as Buck puked stomach acid and water into the bowl, then given him sips of ginger ale both for the nausea and for fluids. He’s sung soft lullabies in mixed Spanish and English, and stroked Buck’s hair. He’s even broken out the Vicks Vapor Rub, a secret weapon home remedy he'd been adorably proud to share, dabbing the menthol at Buck’s temples and watching seriously to see if the pain would ease.

Surprisingly enough, whether it was the Vicks or just Eddie being there, the pain did lessen. Just a little.

But not enough for Buck not to whine at Eddie’s question now, burrow deeper into the bed, wanting something he doesn’t know how to ask for.

“Buck?” Eddie asks again. He’s sitting on the bed, in the empty space next to Buck, hand massaging the knot at the base of Buck’s neck once more. His hands are so strong that Buck keeps having to bite back groans of relief. “How can I help?”

And Buck, who’s got no defenses left, figures that if Eddie is gonna stick around, if he _really_ wants to help, maybe there _is_ one thing he can do.

“I can’t sleep,” Buck mumbles, turning towards Eddie but not opening his eyes. “Hurts too much. Keep tossing ‘n turning. Could you, like—” he mimes holding himself, turns back onto his side, curls into a ball. He’s not going to say the words, doesn’t think he can, but the request is pretty clear. 

There’s silence for a moment, and Buck feels embarrassment set in, burn at the planes of his cheeks, the shame of asking someone for something too intimate.

“Sorry,” he says into the pillow, frustrated both by the pain and by his damn need for human contact. “Shouldn’t have asked—”

And then the weight on the bed is shifting, the duvet covers lifting, and Buck feels the drape of a body against his back, the heavy fall of an arm winding around his waist.

Another moment of silence, and then Eddie is shifting closer, until his chest is flush with Buck’s back and his legs are tangled with Buck’s. His arm curls tighter around Buck’s waist.

“Is this…” Eddie sounds just the slightest bit hesitant, but largely unruffled, like it’s not a strange request at all. Like they’ve been doing this the whole time. Like it’s normal, like they _fit_.

His breath is warm against the back of Buck’s neck.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Buck says quietly, and unashamedly wriggles until he’s even more securely ensconced in Eddie’s embrace. “Yeah, this is great, Eddie, seriously.”

It’s kinda weird, maybe, asking for a—a cuddle, of all things. But Buck is touchy in the best of times, and Eddie gives the most _awesome_ hugs, long and tight and heartfelt. Buck is a sucker for them, these giant embraces that make him feel anchored to the ground, solid and steady, seen and secure. And in this moment when Buck is unmoored and in pain, when body heat and skin-to-skin contact is the only thing that makes him feel connected to something other than the drill boring a hole in his skull...

It doesn’t feel weird at all. It feels perfect.

Eddie’s breathing is rhythmic and even, his chest expanding with each deep inhale and slow exhale. Buck finds himself following the pattern of Eddie’s breathing, finds his eyes slowly unsquinching, lashes fluttering as his face slackens. He even yawns, letting his hand fall overtop Eddie’s in a sleepy gesture of thanks.

“‘S exactly what I needed,” Buck mumbles, and it really is.

The warmth of Eddie’s skin seeps into Buck’s, leeches the numbness from his limbs, makes his body feel like it’s coming alive in small degrees. At the same time, there’s something secure about Eddie’s hold, a sense that even as the pain scatters Buck’s atoms in a thousand agonized directions, there’s someone keeping him together. 

Not someone _—Eddie_ , his best friend, his partner, devastatingly attractive and annoyingly sincere and always willing to call Buck on his bullshit but take care of him when he’s down.

Eddie, who calls Buck his family, who brings him to his own house when he says “I’m taking you home,” because it _is_ Buck’s home now, who has seen the worst of Buck’s injuries and neuroses and still believes in Buck’s ability to fight and keep others safe, to keep his _son_ safe. 

Eddie, who thinks Buck is strong even when Buck doesn’t.

Eddie, whose chin is now resting gently against Buck’s shoulder, whose fingers are now interlocked with Buck’s.

Whose mouth would be so close to Buck’s, if he just turns his head a bit —

“Ouch,” Buck whispers, as the pain starts clanging in his head again. It’s a different pain, more muted, wrestled into weary submission now that a few hours have passed. But it’s still there, and probably just as well. 

Doing dumb things impulsively is Buck’s forte, but kissing his best friend while suffering from a grade-A headache is...probably taking the cake. No matter how nice and handsome he is, or how good he smells. Or how good he _looks,_ with ruffled hair and a threadbare LAFD T-shirt stretched thin over his chest and biceps, low-slung red sweatpants that make Buck think about bed in a whole different context—

There’s a jab of pain in his right temple, like it’s the universe reminding him there’s a time and damned place, for god’s sake.

“Rest up, sleeping beauty,” Eddie says, and there’s a grin in his voice as he squeezes Buck’s hand, like maybe he knows what Buck was thinking. “I’ll be right here getting some shut-eye too, because as soon as Chris sees you, I’ll be lucky if I get one square inch of this bed.”

Migraine pain has nothing on the small well of happiness that makes Buck smile even as he rolls back over on his side, comfortably spooned by Eddie. The idea of an armful of pure kid joy, of getting to hang out with and cuddle that little boy who thinks Buck hung the moon...well, it’s a nice one.

“We’ll make room,” Buck says magnanimously, already dropping in slow degrees into sleep. 

Eddie laughs, Buck thinks, from the soft huff against his neck. “I bet you will,” comes the reply, and there’s the press of something soft and warm against Buck’s shoulder.

Maybe’s it’s Eddie’s mouth, a skim of his lips.

Buck can dream, at least.

The grinding in Buck’s head is easing, and leaving behind an exhaustion that feels like swamping waves. Later, he’ll go back to overthinking, or struggling, or trying to beat back the weariness.

But for right now, he’s got Eddie, and that’s enough.

They drift off still holding hands.

|

“Daddy!”

Christopher’s voice isn’t exactly quiet, but Eddie can tell he’s trying. He hears Carla give kindly advice to lower his voice, and then, whispered:

“Daddy, wake up!”

Eddie slits his eyes open, looks over Buck’s shoulder to see Chris in front of the bed, expectant. Buck stirs, but doesn’t wake.

Carla simply smiles from the doorway, her eyes soft.

“You want to get dinner ready with Carla, mi hijo?” Eddie asks, voice raspy. He’s so warm and comfortable, tucked up against Buck. And there’s finally a smooth line between Buck’s brow, a dead weight to his limbs that suggests total exhaustion and faded pain. Eddie doesn’t want to get up quite yet.

Fortunately, Chris seems to understand. “Yes, Daddy,” he decides. “I’ll help her cook and you can stay with Buck.” Chris reaches out to touch Buck’s brow lightly, the sweetest gesture that tugs at Eddie’s heart. “He isn’t feeling good, right?”

“Right, kiddo,” Eddie confirms. “He’s got a headache like you get sometimes.”

Chris frowns. “Oh,” he says. “They hurt a lot. Is that why you’re cuddling him? Like you do with me?” His hand gentles on Buck’s face, and Eddie can see now a small smile building on Buck’s lips. It makes his own mouth twitch.

“It sure is,” Eddie says tenderly. “That’s why he’s here, so we can look after him and help him feel better.”

Chris nods. “Okay, you can rest and me and Carla will make chicken noodle soup, and then Buck can eat it, because Carla is cooking so it’ll actually taste good.”

“Hey!” Eddie says, indignant. Beside him, Buck chokes on a laugh he can’t hide, slowly blinking his eyes open.

“Buck!” Chris says, delighted. His voice is still low, and Eddie smiles as he watches Chris lean in to give a tiny kiss on Buck’s forehead, solicitous and sweet. There’s no nicer person on earth than his kid, Eddie thinks proudly.

“Superman,” Buck responds, reaching over to bring Chris’s head down and deliver a kiss of his own to Chris’s riotous curls. “You healed me! It’s a miracle. I’m feeling...85 percent recharged.”

“Like a battery?” Chris asks.

“Like a battery,” Buck confirms. He does seem better, clearer-eyed and more solid, no pain straining the lines of his face. There’s tiredness still evident in his expression, but he stretches, long arms above his head, and seems...content.

“So you don’t need any more cuddles then?” 

Eddie frowns at the tone of Chris’s voice, which sounds a little too close to Carla when she’s making a knowing comment. 

Buck grins and props himself up on his elbows. “I didn’t say that,” he says. “Diaz cuddles are the best.”

Chris grins. “Yeah,” he giggles, “Daddy’s are good, he uses his muscles to squeeze really tight.”

Buck looks over his shoulder. “I’ve got better muscles,” he says, pretending to be unimpressed. “I bet I could squeeze tighter.”

Eddie folds his arms. “Oh yeah?” he says, and shares a conspiratorial glance with Chris. “Prove it!”

“I will! Come on Chris, you’re our guinea pig.”

With Carla’s help, through laughter and fumbling and knees jammed in places Eddie doesn’t want to think about, Chris makes it on the bed between Buck and Eddie both. 

“I’m going to go start dinner,” Carla says, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “Y’all let me know when you’re done hugging each other.”

Buck sticks his tongue out at Carla, which makes her roll her eyes even harder and Chris cackle. Then he turns to Eddie and Chris with intent in his eyes. 

“C’mere,” he says, opening his arms. 

Chris launches himself indelicately at Buck, winding his arms around him. Buck, in turn, envelops Chris, holding him close and rocking him in what seems like the most thorough and loving hug a person who’s just suffered a day-long migraine can muster.

Eddie takes it in, this picture of his best friend holding his child, taking time to love and care for a kid who’s not his own, after a whole day of feeling so ill he looked almost at death’s door. Of course, it shouldn’t be surprising. Buck shows time and time again the capacity of his heart to _give_ and keep giving, to sacrifice freedom and bachelorhood and even his life to make things better for Chris, to be a part of this family. It humbles Eddie. Makes his throat tight for a moment.

Eddie realizes that if he wasn’t sort of in love with Buck before, he probably is now.

Buck peeks over Chris’s head and must see something in Eddie’s expression. “Hey kid,” he says to Chris, like they’re sharing a secret. “How about we show your dad how strong we _both_ are, huh?”

And then without warning, Eddie’s got an armful of best friend and son, a tangle of limbs and laughter, Buck’s deep voice in one ear, Chris’s higher, softer voice in the other. They’re both chattering, joking, poking fun at Eddie, and it’s so perfect that Eddie closes his eyes, makes himself record this moment in his memory.

“Wake up, daddy!” Chris says, and pokes at Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie opens his eyes and dives at Chris playfully, tickling him into submission as Buck ruffles his hair. After a few breathless moments, Chris is obviously tired of them both, and says, “Okay, I’m going to go help make dinner now, please.”

Buck trades a grin with Eddie at them being summarily dismissed, but hey, that’s what 8 year olds do, Eddie supposes. Buck gets Chris set up with his braces and walks him slowly to the door. 

“Carla,” Buck calls, “We’re done hugging!”

“For _now_ ,” Carla calls back, and Chris laughs as he makes his way to the kitchen to help. Buck watches him go for a minute before turning back to Eddie on the bed.

“Eddie,” he says, and his voice is so heavy with feeling that Eddie raises a palm.

“If you even _think_ of saying thank you again—”

Eddie doesn’t get the rest of the threat out before Buck is striding back across the room, like he never stumbled or staggered or curled up in pain to begin with. 

“Eddie, I friggin’ love you,” Buck says, fiercely, brokenly, and then he tugs at the front of Eddie’s T-shirt (which come to think of it, might have been Buck’s once upon a time) and brings him close, till they’re nose to nose. His shoulders sag, body giving out under the strain of the last few hours, but he pushes valiantly along.

“I wanted to crawl into a hole and _die_ a couple hours ago,” he says, “and then I wake up in your bed and you’re holding me and your kid is hugging me and this house — this _home—_ ”

Buck stops, closes his eyes. Eddie can’t breathe, can’t speak, doesn’t want to ruin the momentum or the spell they’re under.

“You’re the first person to stay,” Buck finally says, “Even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard. Eddie, I—” 

He doesn’t continue this time, but it doesn’t matter. It sounds so familiar, this forlorn, desperate refrain. Eddie can see in Buck the same loneliness that lives inside Eddie’s own heart, the fear that people will leave when they see pain, when it gets to be too much.

But Buck’s already proved he would never go that easily. Eddie would never go that easily, either. And he’s starting to realize why. 

“Well, this works, because to be honest, I friggin’ love you, too,” Eddie says lightly, and rests his forehead against Buck’s. “You’re pretty much my favorite person on the planet besides my son and the late Selena Quintanilla, god keep her soul, and probably my Abuela and parents and aunts and maybe two of my sisters, but...yeah, I. I want you around for a long, long time. Can we try that? Taking care of each other, making sure we stick around, together?”

Buck laughs, a wondering, happy sound, clutches at Eddie’s shirt more securely. “Yep,” he says decisively, mouth skimming Eddie’s, warm and tentative, before becoming sure and searching, “Yeah, okay. I’d like that. Let’s try that.”

So…

They do.

|

(And for his part, every migraine that follows, Buck thinks there are points to be made about, uh, kissing things all better.)

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday fic for my love, Jayne, who welcomed me into this fandom with open arms and who deserves all the hurt/comfort fic her heart desires! Love you!


End file.
